WritersShowcase

The door swung open, and like they always do when you least want them to, it creaked painfully and Dillon cringed and cursed silently under his breath.

For a moment he stood in the entrance, like a fox, sniffing at the morsel that had been left for him within a snare.

All was quiet, except for the rumble outside of falling rubble and shellfire in the distance. The occasional rattle of sporadic gunfire cut through the night and the pounding rotary blades of helicopter manoeuvres thumped overhead. But it all seemed so much quieter now that he was standing within the doorway.

It was as if his senses had finely tuned themselves to whatever was going on in this grubby apartment and for the moment nothing outside these cracked and crumbling stone walls existed.

Outside it was dark; he’d waited until dark before entering, to give things a chance to work them selves out. Many hours had passed since he'd sat outside, watching from the ruin of a recently destroyed building, handpicked because of his theory that a tank shell will never strike twice in the same place.

He’d watched the fireworks that lit up the sky, the tracer shells ripping across the deserted streets and the strafing of helicopter fire.

Then at some point something snapped and he decided that something was wrong.

As his boot landed on the ragged rug he expected all hell to break loose. To see a stream of Hamas fighters pour from the hallway with guns blazing. But there was nothing.

With all his might he wrenched forward his other foot and now he was finally in the front room. With his heel he tapped the door and it rocked back against the frame, with his elbow he closed it, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the hallway in front that opened like a chasm.

Through the sight of his Berreta he studied the apartment and whispered silently to himself.

"Front room, coffee table covered in junk and smokes, kitchen to the right, Messy, dripping tap, pots and pans, window above the sink. Dim light one candle on the shelf, hallway in front, one room at the end, one half way up to the right."

He shuffled forwards, shivering with cold and fear, sweat ran down his face and he blinked hard as it bubbled through his eyebrows. He imagined an avalanche with fine trees catching the snow and released a hand from his iron grip on the gun and grabbed a fist full of shirt from his shoulder and rubbed it over his face.

With arms still outstretched, cradling his gun he moved forwards expecting floorboards to give him away, but nothing sounded. It was so quiet his ears hummed.

Sweat was seeping from his white bloodless knuckles around the gun, it felt like he was trying to hang onto a wet bar of soap. He tightened his grip even more until his hands squeaked like stretched PVC.

He pushed himself onwards to the hallway in front. Those two doors would determine the rest of his life. He could have six seconds left to live or sixty years.

He called for help, a soft whisper, maybe not even a whisper, perhaps just a breath. Either way he heard it.

"Adi... Adi, I'm scared."

Without hesitation Adi answered. Not the real Adi, but somewhere within the dark corners of this doomed building or his broken mind he got his answer.

"Don’t be, I am with you."

Dillon cracked a smile and pushed himself on.

"Lock the door." Came the voice again.

Dillon turned back and slid the catch across the door. The huge metal bolt seemed to scream as it rubbed against the loop. He winced for a moment then his eyes flashed over to the hallway once again.

He moved forwards towards the hallway ready to empty his gun into the first face that peered through one of these doors. His trigger finger was very itchy. The pistol was locked and loaded with the safety off. He had to pull his finger back slightly because for a moment it looked as if he might squeeze a shot off by accident.

As he moved further down the light dimmed to a point where he could only make out shapes and shades. And in five steps he stood beside the first door on the right.

He took one hand from the gun that ached as it filled with blood again and lay it on the handle, it was cold but moved easily, squeaking downwards under the weight of his hand. He pushed the door open slightly and saw the tell tale signs of a bathroom with toilet and shower with a mirror opposite.

He caught a glance of himself. The flash of the gun, and the terrified eyes and outline of his dirty unshaven face. His chest looked bigger because of his flap jacket and the word "PRESS" spelt backwards in three languages hung on a large badge in front.

A breeze caught the plastic curtains of the shower cubicle and they rustled like autumn leaves. This caught his attention and his eyes tried to focus in on the dark shape that lay behind them. And without actually entering the room he leaned inside with the gun pointing towards it and with his free hand pulled one half of them aside.

With a gasp he let go and drew back almost crying out with fear. His breath was fast and shallow as he tried to calm it, to get it together. His heart was everywhere and for a second he thought he'd throw up or pass out. He could feel the water jets inside his mouth lubricating his mouth to be sick. But he swallowed with a steady gulp.

He pursed his lips and blew out hard and moved in to study the body closer. It was laying on the shower floor wrapped in what looked like cling film from head to toe, it looked like a huge dead maggot, but black as oil. The black substance covered the walls and floor of the shower cubicle like it had been flicked off the brush of a painter. Of course he knew it was blood, and the cellophane or whatever it was holding it together, like a bag of giblets. The smell of death was obvious, a sickly sweet scent that attracted the buzzing flies that he saw gathering to lay their eggs. He’d disturbed a few and they burst into the air like tiny crows.

He heaved again and pulled back, biting the flesh of his forearm. Screaming into his arm. Again he calmed himself and slowly turned towards the far door.

This door was slightly ajar and a jet-black slither could be seen of the room beyond it. As he moved forwards it took forever to reach it. It was like in the movies, when at the main hook of the film the camera pulls back but zooms forwards. He kept imagining being rushed from behind, a silent thumping of footsteps and a stabbing pain in his back as a knife is forced through. A knife will kill you so easily here he thought. More easily than a bullet. The thing about a knife is it makes you bleed. And without access to a hospital that’s what you die from. Even a stab in the arm or leg will kill you. To steady his nerves he tried to think of what he would do if he were stabbed or shot. Tying off a limb or putting pressure on a body wound. Then before he knew it he was at the door and the butt of his gun rested against it.

He pushed and the door rocked back about six inches. Dillon scanned what he could, demanding his eyes get used to the darkness and tell him what's in there. Commanding his ears to hear a single breath, a cocked gun or sniff. Anything but that dripping tap and those flies behind him.

Then he did see something. There was a window, and beyond it was a flare that was floating miles away in the distance. It shone on a face. It was a face he knew, conscious and gagged, with fearful tortured eyes that were staring right back at him. This man, pock marked and rugged was wrapped like the other, but this time to a chair, only his head was uncovered, but it looked like that wasn't the plan (As a roll of shrink-wrap was hanging pendulously behind him).

And then Dillon knew there HAD to be another in that room. The man's eyes confirmed it. He was trying to warn Dillon, rolling them to the left, to the side of the door that wasn't open. Dillon had to act, to act now, he took a deep breath and raised his knee, to kick open that door and blow away what was standing behind it.

A blast shattered the silence, but from someone else. The smell of smoke, the confusion and shock as Dillon instinctively pounced backwards. He’d launched himself as the door was blown from its hinges and jumped back ten feet as if being tugged by some giant elastic band. Splinters rained down from the ceiling that had burst from the door, and buckshot holes sat in it as a figure pounced forwards through the smoke.

Dillon was frantic, staggering backwards almost semi conciouse and brushing down against the vest thinking he’d been hit. When he realised he hadn’t he stared upwards to see the giant that was pounding towards him. A huge one hundred-kilo man with a determined looks on his dark bearded face.

His steps seemed to shake the whole building; he could certainly hear the pounding. Dillon was back peddling, trying to buy some precious time to pull himself together and do something, knowing that not only was the gap closing but also he was going to run out of room. He still had the gun in his hand, raised it and fired aimlessly at the figure bearing down on him.

He cracked off five deathening shots before he realised that it was only blanks. And what’s more his assailant didn’t even flinch or slow his pace. He also knew.

The man, in his shabby army greens stomped even closer, smoking shotgun in one hand and eight-inch curved knife in the other. When within striking range he dropped the gun and lurched forwards with his now free hand and swatted the gun from Dillon’s grasp then grabbed Dillon’s throat like he was about to throttle a turkey.

Dillon's dazed eyes then focused on the tip of the knife plunging towards his face. He lifted his hands and grabbed hold of the huge wrist and held back the knife with both hands.

This seemed to infuriate the man even more who tossed Dillon against the wall like a rag doll. Dillon hit it with such force that as his body hit it the momentum threw his head against it. Then his neck seemed to stretch and he could hear the cracking stress on the bones as he was lifted off his feet and thrown to the other side. He let out a shriek as the mans face drove itself in towards his.

Dillon could smell the cigarettes on his breath and see the sleep that had congealed in his eyes. He roared something in Arabic, which was lost on Dillon.

"Alla ahbar." Dillon yelled back, which had no effect.

He was now being forced to the ground, bent down backwards until he thought he would snap. Then his legs slid out and he found himself underneath this huge lump that was now laying all his weight on the knife.

Dillon had no chance; his eyes were screwed tight as he fought agonisingly to push it back. His teeth were gritted and arms burned with pain but the knife drew lower and did a slow semi circle.

He was trying to aim.

"Fuck off!" Was all Dillon could screech through gritted teeth.

In the chaos the man didn't hear, but Dillon did, the pounding on the outside door and shouting. Someone was trying to get in.

Just before the needle sharp tip of the knife began to scratch against his eyelid he could hear someone trying to shoulder it in.

Dillon found new strength as he could feel the skin of his eyelid rip open and the knife rubbing against his eyeball. It shocked him into a convulsive frenzy that pushed the knife back slightly. He twisted his head to the side with a gurgling scream and the knife fell, slashing across his temple and burying itself into the floor.

Shots rang out, automatic fire from behind the door and there was a thumping above him like a gorilla banging its chest. It was the man, shot by his own comrades as they tried to get in to help him.

He flung his arms up screaming "La!"

The firing stopped and there seemed to be a debate going on from behind the peppered front door, muffled talking, discussing what they should do next.

Dillon didn't wait, he leaned towards the knife, plucking it out with his hand and thrusting upwards towards the huge pain ridden face. There was a Pop like small balloon, a slicing sound then an ear pearcing scream as the man jumped to his feet and crashed around the room as if in some giant pin ball machine. He knocked the table flying and bounced off the wall, leaving a dent in it.

Once again the door was being forced and Dillon scrambled across the floor towards the dark shapes of the guns in the hallway. He threw himself upon the shotgun and pumped it to chamber a bullet. As the door flung open he span round, rolling onto his back with the gun barrel waving round in front of him. A face appeared in the doorway and he fired. The shell hit the frame and the pellets burst out. The face caved in like an imploding football and his teeth and skin exploded from his head spraying out into the air like confetti. Everything stopped then; it all slowed down for a moment. The man still alive stood perplexed and still in the same spot from which he’d been shot, he was trying to breathe, his twisted mouth grabbing at the air like a banked fish. Then an arm came over his head and rested on it with a handgun gripped tightly in a skinny fist.

It fired wildly as Dillon scrambled backwards, avoiding chunks of plaster and falling masonry that were being blasted from the walls. Then the big Arab staggered into view, clawing at the handle of the knife that was embedded into his eye. For a moment it looked like he would get shot again by his own men but Dillon pumped the gun again brought him down with a shot to the body. He fell like a condemned building that had been dynamited. Straight down.

Dillon finally scrambled back into the darkness of the far room and stood up, whirling round to see the surviving captive jolting from side to side desperately trying to free him self.

Dillon plucked the only piece of furniture in the room (a small table) with a free hand and with a yell of defiance and adrenaline tossed it towards the window, over the head of the captive. The window shattered completely and then Dillon drew forwards, lifting the front legs of the chair. The terrified man, all wrapped up like a joint of meat was screaming through his linen gag. With another yell Dillon tipped him backwards, tossing him out of the window.

Dillon heard the thump of running behind him; the man was in the apartment, hurtling down the hall, just about to unleash a spray of bullets into the room.

Dillon pumped the gun and blasted a hole into the wall. He turned back towards the window and scrambled through it, below him was the captive, now ex-captive rolling along the floor fifteen feet below him with broken bits of chair rattling behind him like cans on a just married car.

Dillon jumped, as the thumping of running drew even closer behind him. He hit the ground hard and rolled over aiming his gun upwards towards the window above. A face appeared and Dillon fired a shot and it darted back in the room. Instead the hand came again and fired down to his position.

Dillon jumped to his feet and grabbed hold of the leg of the man, which had somehow got loose from the wrap. He dragged him backward towards the shadows while shielding his face from the whizzing bullets that slapped into the ground behind them.

He’d now put about fifty feet between him and the man who appeared in the window again, this time taking an AK47 from around his shoulder.

Most of him was silhouette but Dillon could make out his face. He was fierce, quite small but with deep penetrating eyes, a goat beard and a nasty scar on his left cheek.

He aimed as Dillon drew back further and then fired as Dillon made it past the wall.

The sound echoed up and down the street as Dillon carried on dragging backwards inside the labyrinth of alleyways.

He looked down, the gag was now loose on the sweat drenched face below, he was trying to talk.

"You’re fucking crazy!" He gasped.

"Can we talk about that later?" Dillon huffed.

Dillon awoke, his eyes blinking hard as he strained to focus on the room around him. He looked at the alarm clock on the table across the room. Only 7.00 am. Practically a mammoth lay in for him on a weekday.

It was a restless night; first of all he had laid awake for most of it, then when he had slept depressing dreams he couldn't snap out of plagued him.

The way he had fallen asleep was also strange. He had never slept well in the past but was comforted with the notion that at some point he would eventually nod off. Then even though the night may seem like an eternity he would somehow always awake in the morning, as if by magic. But last night was different because for once he knew the exact moment when he fell asleep. He'd been awake for an hour, tossing things around in his head, then he muttered, "Right, sleep." And he did.

He was already hot and assumed it must have been this that woke him. The temperature would have risen by about ten degrees in the last hour and the sun had engulfed most of the room by then.

Slowly he slid from Adi's hold and she squirmed uncomfortably as he positioned himself on the side of the bed.

He stared at himself in the mirror at the far end of the room. "I wonder if I've changed," he thought. His complexion was a lot darker until you got to the white tide mark of his shorts. His hair was scruffier, light brown with blonde flecks from the sun, short and unevenly cut. He was bigger built than when he'd left England. His torso was muscular, with good definition, despite the slight belly that had developed over the past few months. He couldn’t tell if he looked older, but thought that he must do. It had been a while.

"What's the time?" Adi whispered, still with her eyes closed.

Dillon stroked her face with the back of his hand and pulled the sheet over her shoulders. "It's still early."

He slipped on his shorts and padded through to the kitchen, his toes curling up from the tiled floor which was yet to warm up.

The ants had been at the dishes again, the plates and cups in the sink were covered and there were two black lines across the wall. One marching forwards and one back again.

It was this that had reminded him of his dream. This was also strange because at the time he knew it was a dream. And, as was usually the case, by the time he'd woken from it he couldn't really remember the finer parts of it.

All he could remember was a road full of cars. The road was huge, ten cars deep and it disappeared into the distance as millions of taillights slowly snaked their way to the horizon. The sky was dark, with no moon or stars to light up any other scenery than the dark shapes of the car bodies. And inside, at the wheel each driver was dressed the same and had no features, as if it were all just shop window dummies.

He washed the ants away, wet the dishcloth and wiped them off the wall, then made himself a strong coffee. He took it to the living room window and flung open the mosquito nets, gazing out at the palm trees cacti and prehistoric looking foliage outside.

He loved this view first thing in the morning, a wall of green twenty or so feet in front of him, full of life. A huge gecko sat basking on a tree trunk; it was there every morning in the same spot. It just sat motionless with the bubble of its jaw pumping like a little heart.

The bedroom door slid open and Adi wondered through clutching a bunch of neatly folded clothes to her chest. She was wearing one of Dillon's T-shirts and kissed his sunburned shoulder as he tugged on his third cigarette of the morning.

The only sound now apart form the birds outside was the flush of the toilet and the running of the shower.

Dillon lifted his hand and held it out, it was shaking. He took a deep breath and expelled it, pursing his lips and blowing hard.

His heart was racing; he could see it thumping against his chest as if it were racing with the Gecko's bubble.

The sound of the bathroom door opening made him reach for another smoke and he fumbled the pack to get one out as if he only had seconds to live without it.

Adi then slowly walked across the room towards him.

She was wearing an army uniform, green, smart, sexy. With a black beret clipped to her shoulder. Over the other was a strap where hung an M16 assault rifle.

Adi positioned herself beside Dillon at the window and gazed outside. Her hand crept up Dillon's back towards his nape. "You okay?"

Dillon nodded.

"Still drunk?"

"Nah, mid-week pissups aren’t my thing really. I didn’t have much"

"Oh, so you don’t remember me carrying you upstairs then?"

"Hey?"

"I didn’t mind, it was your party. So how does it feel to have been here one year today? Feel trapped?"

Dillon took her hand and kissed it. "When you’re not here, yes."

"It's funny." She mused. "When I’m away I always see you at this window. "Staring out at the trees, watching your lizard, planning and thinking."

There was a pause then Adi checked her watch. "Right, time to go. I’ll call you when I get there."

Dillon sparked into life and flicked his smoke out of the window. "C’mon I’ll walk with you to the bus stop."

********************

The guesthouse staff dining room was always empty this time in the morning apart from the same three people. That is, Dillon (who cmae straight from the bus stop), Ray and Moshe the guesthouse Rabbi.

Moshe was required there if the guesthouse was to maintain it's kosher standards. It was his job to make sure that the meat and dairy products were prepared, served and disposed of separately.

Seeing as ninety percent of the guesthouse visitors were Jewish his presence was required but there was a mutual understanding that he just sat in the staff canteen and kept out of the way. So there he sat, and slept.

Ray and Dillon were having the first of many pit stops there before the nightmare began.

The canteen was very bare, with just five rows of tables with chairs either side. And a buffet of salads, bread and meat were laid out on the side of the room for the workers.

All of it being the leftovers from the Continental breakfast served in the Restaurant the day before.

Ray and Dillon were having their usual milky coffee before the mad rush that awaited them. Both wore white T-shirts with the guesthouse logo on the front, cut down jeans and trainers.

It was exactly 8.00 am and they reckoned they had another ten minutes before the bleeper went off. That was on the table between them. They hadn't worked out who's turn it would be to take it that day.

"So what was it like working with Shane then?" Asked Dillon.

The previous day Ray had worked an extra duty at the guesthouse with Shane.

"Jesus mate." Replied Ray. "Never again, I mean I knew the guy was weird but I never realised how bad he was until yesterday."

"If I had kids I would not let him baby-sit for me." Added Dillon.

"Christ, I wouldn't let him baby-sit my dog."

"What happened then?" Dillon asked.

"Well, you when the yanks come and you get that stereotypical family don't you. You know, the dad's like a bear, the son is an exact mini replica but he's wearing his baseball cap back to front.."

"Yeah." Dillon chipped in. "And as soon as the bus arrives they are there at the door as it opens to puke out of the bus."

"Yeah, and its just coke that comes out, fizzing on the floor."

Moshe snored and they both turned and glanced at him for a moment.

"Anyway." Ray went on. "The mother is really fat or really skinny, never normal. But the daughters are always perfect. So, this yank family turns up, and we check them in to their room, they tip well and we are out of there. But before we go this girl asks us to say a few words in the old English accent. So we have a little chat with her and it's quite apparent she likes us.."

"Wow, time out, time out. How olds this girl?" Interrupted Dillon.

"Oh, seventeen or eighteen I guess."

"Thank god for that."

"Anyway, We're going around doing the usual stuff and she's outside on the bench watching us. Now Shane loves this, he can't take his eyes off her. So, in the afternoon they all go on a jeep trip and we're collecting the laundry. So we go past their chalet and there, hanging on the balcony are the loveliest white little knickers you ever did see. So we stop, and Shane is just sitting there, like.. Frothing at the mouth. So I say, lets sniff em' to kind of egg on his perverted urges. So he jumps out, grabs em', chuck's em' to me and says you first."

"YOU DIDN'T!"

"No wait, so I just have a little nip, you know.. Just a quick sniff and then I chuck them to Shane, and well.."

"Well what?"

"He opens them up to expose the gusset. Then he pressed his nose against them and ran it from top to bottom making the noise of a bloodhound or something. And you know what that tells me?"

Dillon was laughing so much he was starting to cough. "What?"

"Something tells me that our Shane has done this kind of thing before.. A lot."

Dillon nodded to Moshe. "Give him Moshey's, that'll make him quit".

Both laughing they turned to Moshe who was facing them two tables back but fast sleep. He was round and fat, always with a face full of stubble and during the times his eyes were open they were so red that sometimes it just looked like sockets and no eyeball.

"Hey Moshey!" Called Dillon.

"Wake him up."

"How?"

Ray flicked a stray olive to Dillon's side of the table.

Dillon took it in finger and thumb, aimed and threw it at Moshe's head. Whilst the olive was in mid-air he bent his head down towards his coffee in some attempt at looking innocent.

"AAAW!" Cried Ray. "Right in the eye."

Moshe was looking around like there was someone else in the room that could have done it.

Then he pointed at the boys, "MISHTARA!"

"What he say?" Asked a smirking Ray.

"Police."

Seconds later the bleeper went, Dillon grabbed it and they left the room.

As they stepped outside it was already warming up and they walked over to an industrial weighing machine and in turn stepped onto it. Dillon was seventy-two kilograms, Ray was seventy-eight.

"Fat git." Remarked Dillon.

They fired up the Club Car, A golfing buggy with a pick-up back end to sling the cases on. They drove from the parking bay into the car Park, Dillon at the wheel and he pulled up outside the main building.

Ray ran into reception and came out holding several slips of paper. Each slip contained room numbers with the registration of the corresponding bus they belonged to.

Dillon swung round and headed to the chalets as Ray sorted out the slips in order of time. "So how does it feel to be here a year today?" He asked.

"Oh don’t you start," snorted Dillon. "I’m trying to forget it".

"Adi back at base?"

"Yep."

"Too bad."

In all there were fifteen chalet buildings, each containing eight rooms. That means on a day like today (just after the weekend) there was a potential of one hundred and twenty rooms emptying during the course of the morning.

All the bags would be outside the doors while the guests were at breakfast and as they pulled up to the first building they jumped out. Both ran to the lower level and waddled back with cases in each hand and smaller bags under each arm. The suspension of the Club Car listed like a sinking ship as luggage was dumped on the back.

Then Ray ran up to the first floor and began slinging some of the smaller bags over the balcony to Dillon's open arms. The bigger ones they both carried down.

With the Club Car totally overloaded it roared back to the car park like a sick animal and they lined the cases up in front of the relevant buses, then went back for more.

By 10.00am the car park was teeming with life. Six buses were getting ready to leave and all the drivers were fighting for their attention once the luggage had been checked.

Dillon was approaching the tour guides to see who would be giving the tips whilst Ray was lining up the bigger bags to go in first and chatting with the two hundred or so guests that were milling around in the car park. Most were old and of course Americans.

Any English or Australian buses would be totally ignored until the very end because they never tipped. Germans would be done first because they would always tip, but if you didn't do it quickly they would do it themselves and you would loose out.

Americans were fickle, you could never tell. It would depend on what the tour guides told them to do.

Dillon, getting a feel on who was going to give, approached another guide. He was an Israeli Sabra; harsh and fat bellied with a gun on his hip and mirror shades. Dillon was sure they all got the tough guy rig out from the same shop. It was as if at school they had lessons in how to look like an Israeli Sabra. He spoke to the guide in Hebrew asking him if he could ask the guests to give them a tip.

The guide shook his head but pulled out twenty Shekels of his own money and handed it to Dillon. This was to save face, get the bus loaded quickly and to show the guests he was in control. Ultimately it would increase his chances of a big tip once he took the guests back to the airport.

Dillon then began to load the bags into the belly of the bus as the guests stood and watched. Quite rightly they didn't trust anything in this country unless they actually saw it done.

He noticed Ray was loading at the end so he must have scored as well.

Dillon finished the loading in minutes and ran over to the next bus in the line.

"That's mine." Said a man, one of the elderly American guests.

Dillon took the bag from him, pulled the twenty out of his pocket and handed it to the guest. "Can you change this?" He asked.

The guy handed it back not even answering.

"Oh, thanks very much." Dillon grinned in a loud voice.

There was a rumble amongst the guests as Dillon took hold of more bags.

"There you go son," said another man handing him two Dollars.

Half an hour and it was all over. By now the temperature was thirty-eight degrees in the shade and fifty under the sun. The guys were red faced and dripping with sweat as they watched the buses leave.

They sat in the club Car and bundled all their money together in a heap of screwed up dollar bills and coins which they began to divide up.

"You win again!" Exclaimed Ray. "Them old ladies sure must fantasise about you."

Dillon was still counting. "Fifty three, fifty four and.. A few Sheks, we'll put them in the pot for tonight."

Ray took his share and stuffed it into his pocket. "Twenty seven dollars each and a bit of beer money, not bad."

"It'll make up for this afternoon." Said Dillon as they headed back towards the dining room for some breakfast. "The Brits are coming, and some French too."

"What are they like for tips." Asked Ray as (like before) they stepped in turn on the weighing machine.

"Dodgy, but if the French give it's in Francs."

"Shit," huffed Dillon.

"What is it?"

"Sixty seven and a half. I've lost 4 kilos."

Ray stepped on. "That's about 9 pounds."

"What are you?" Asked an intrigued Dillon as the numbers of the digital display tumbled upwards. "74, same as me, four kilos."

The weight they lost was through dehydration and during the next hour it was put on through constant drinking through their leisurely breakfast and jugs of water. They would drink 4 pints each in the next half-hour like it was nothing.

Then they would fill another 2-litre jug each and would take it with them on their towel collection.

*********************

Now the guesthouse lay dormant until the afternoon when from about 4.00pm the buses would start filtering into the car park with some fresh guests. The setting of the guest house was relaxing and picturesque with all the chalet blocks evenly spaced, surrounded by grass and shrubs tenderly cared for by the Arabic gardener Mohamed who was much teased by the boys. From 10.00am onwards the maids would be cleaning up the rooms, and towels and sheets now replaced the baggage.

Lines of paths wound alongside each chalet and deck chairs were placed at strategic points around the area.

The Main building of the guesthouse was all open plan, with the first stop being the reception on the right and souvenir shop on the left. Then up some steps was the bar with chairs and tables surrounding it. Finally the Restaurant sat serving continental breakfast, a buffet lunch and evening meal containing either meat or fish.

Hidden was the kitchen, which was noisy and chaotic, and probably breaking every health and safety regulation rule in the land. Behind that was the washing up room with two huge dishwashing machines, more resembling a car wash with belts full of dirty dishes constantly running through them. One belt contained meat products and one for dairy.

Below the guesthouse was a conference hall and on the first floor were the offices and the T.V. room where Dillon and Ray would sit in the evening as they waited for the buses to arrive.

The guesthouse was actually an enterprise of the Kibbutz and generated a lot of wealth and even more debts for the six hundred or so residents. Many Kibbutzniks took jobs in the guesthouse (usually the best ones) and the gaps were filled by outside labour or Kibbutz volunteers such as Dillon and Ray.

The Kibbutz itself had its fingers in many pies, and also owned all the surrounding farmland where it grew and harvested avocado's, pecan nuts, oranges and olives. They also kept cows, poultry and fish to be sold or consumed in the Kibbutz.

Being extremely self sufficient the Kibbutz had it's own plumbers, mechanics, doctors, carpenters, builders and sheet metal workers all working for the good of the community.

The kibbutz was also a huge leisure centre in it's own right with a swimming pool, nature reserve, Disco, Cinema, horse riding, jeep trips, a shooting range and acres of parks and playing fields that were available to both residents and paying guests.

Many would describe the kibbutz as a commune. A social system set apart from the outside world with an ideal based on socialism and equality. The payment of kibbutz members was very low but in exchange for your work and membership your living needs were all catered for. So not one person had their own car but they could book one for free just as if you were going to a hire centre. Or if you were to take a bus somewhere the Kibbutz office would refund your tickets. If you wanted to go on holiday you would have to do extra work to be rewarded by the ticket. Housing was nearly always a flat with its size depending on how many would be living there.

Some would say that it was the last place in the world where communism is alive and well and thriving. But it was guaranteed that everyone had a scam going to make some extra money and after a while brand new Suzuki Jeeps were appearing outside peoples houses and a few too many holidays were taken.

The kibbutz itself was situated in the Upper Galilee just above the Sea of Galilee locally known as the Kinneret. It was a very northerly point of Israel and the Kibbutz was very close to south Lebanon where there was always sporadic skirmishes between the IDF (Israeli Defence Forces) and the Hezbollah who were the local Arabic Terrorist group.

Life for the twenty or so volunteers that were there at the moment was based on much the same ideal as the Kibbutzniks except the housing was poorer and the pay was less and of course access to cars was a definite no no. But the volunteers were involved in all aspects of the work there although most were centred on the kibbutz dining room. They worked in the kitchens or served the food, washed up and kept it all running under the command of various Kibbutz women.

You're working week was about seven hours and six days a week but work was rarely hard or taxing and breaks were very long. Saturdays you had off because of the Jewish Sabbath.

********************

By eleven thirty the work was finished for the morning for Ray and Dillon. They worked a split shift so would have to return at four while one of them would have to hold the bleeper in case anyone came early.

They stepped into the air-conditioned reception covered in sweat and turned their keys in. Dalia and Batia both worked the reception this time of the morning and standing together were a real contrast.

Dalia was one of the Kibbutz babes; fresh out of the army working in the reception all the hours she could to raise some travel money. She was the stereotypical looking Israeli with black hair, brown eyes and bronzed complication. Friendly and funny she was a good ally of Dillon's and a great source of fantasy material for Ray.

Batia was Dalia's fifty-year-old aunt who had a permanent frown and always seemed to eye up the boys with distaste.

"Much tonight?" Asked Dillon as he tossed the keys onto the tray behind reception.

Dalia flicked through the bus cards fully aware of Ray's eyes pouring over her breasts. "No, just four buses, you're ok."

"How's things Batty?" asked Ray in mock flirtatiousness to Batia. "You're looking lovely today."

Batia scowled up at him as she cashed up the till.

"How's Adi?" Dalia asked.

"Ok I guess," Dillon sighed. "She's doing some training in how to fire tanks, she should be back next week."

"Where? Tel Aviv?" Asked Dalia.

"Yep."

"I was there."

"Is it tough?"

"No, not at all," Said Dalia thinking back. "It's more character building and teamwork, they want to pick the leaders. I didn't really like it because you had no privacy. Imagine a thousand eighteen year old girls eating and sleeping together, there's sometimes fighting over the phone but it's ok I guess."

"Do they shower together?" Asked Ray.

"Oh yes, it’s a long building and you all go in to shower. You only have one peg to hang your clothes."

Ray flicked his eyes upwards trying to imagine the scene. "God, a thousand naked girls all in one room."

"Put it away Ray, what you need's a cold swim," said Dillon patting his back and slapping him into reality.

They left the reception and stepped back into the furnace outside, taking the path, which led to the kibbutz pool.

"God I'd love to be Dalias Knickers," Ray sighed.

"Careful," said Dillon. "You're beginning to sound like Shane."

"God forbid, coming to the pool?"

"Nah" replied Dillon. "Adi's gonna phone me at twelve".

"Oh, well give her my love."

"Will do."

"And ask her if she can smuggle a camera into the showers".

Dillon laughed and trailed off towards the flats.

As he stepped through the front door of his first floor flat it was like entering an oven. All the curtains were drawn so no sun could enter the room and all the windows were shut to keep in the air from the night before.

He checked the thermometer on the wall; it read thirty-five Celsius. Three degrees less than outside.

Wondering into the kitchen he noticed that the mouse tray had claimed another victim. The tray contained a sticky substance with bait set in the middle. The mouse would run onto the tray to get to it and would die trying to get off, usually a slow death that involved ripping it's own skin off. This one was dead but he'd usually find them skinned and twitching. "Just like an Israeli to invent the cruellest mouse trap in the world," he'd said when he first saw it.

He then got a dish cloth and wiped the line of ants that was across the wall, out to exploit a bit of schnitzel that he'd left on a plate the night before.

Then he heard a rustling in the cutlery drawer. He pulled it open and an inch long cockroach scampered from one end to the other in a desperate panic to avoid capture. He spanked it with a spoon, throwing all the rest of the cutlery in the air as he swatted the huge insect ten times. Then he threw it in the bin.

With his house keeping chores done Dillon stripped and stepped into the shower.

A loud scream echoed round the apartment building as the cold water ran over Dillon's overheated body.

********************

Meanwhile one hundred metres away an underwater scream sent bubbles flooding to the surface of the Kibbutz swimming pool.

Ray kicked for the surface and burst out. "Christ it's freezing!"

"It's not freezing," came a woman's voice by the poolside. "It just feels that way coz you're really hot".

Ray climbed out and padded to a deck chair positioned opposite two volunteer girls. "Try telling my family jewels that. They've just retreated into my pelvis. I’ll need a plunger to tease those babies out again."

This time of the day the pool area was deserted as most were still working. The girls, Kirsten and Anna worked split shifts the same as Ray. This was the only time they could sunbathe topless.

Kirsten and Anna were Danish students taking time out from studies. Kirsten was blonde, tall, slim with blue eyes, and very cute. Anna was shorter and bigger built with brown hair. Both were very uninhibited and ate guys like Ray for breakfast. Their English was flawless apart from a slight accent and when they were the company of others they would even speak English to each other so as not to appear rude.

Ray slipped on his sunglasses just in case his eyes would inadvertently flick down at the plump bronzed breasts in front of him. They were dark enough for him to make it look as if he were talking to the girls faces and nothing else. It would be so uncool if he were caught, and besides, he didn't want to jeopardise future ogling sessions.

He squirmed as Kirsten reached into an open bag under her seat and pulled out some sun tan lotion. She squirted a generous blob into her hands and rubbed them together. Then she slapped the lotion on her chest and rubbed it away until she shone once again.

"So how's the luggage?" Asked Anna as she took a sip from a rapidly warming coke can.

"Hot, lots of yanks, buses, chaos. The usual really."

"Where's Dillon?" Asked Kirsten.

"Waiting for a call from Mrs. G. I. Jane."

Anna gave a chuckle. "It's funny here, the women go off to war and the men stay home and wait by the phone."

"Yep." Agreed Ray crossing his legs, "that's equality for you."

"How about you Ray?" Asked Kirsten. "Not interested in the locals?"

"Not a chance," Ray insisted, "I go for the more North European look myself.

"I find the Israeli's very abrupt," commented Anna. "Do you remember when we first came here about two months ago?"

Ray nodded.

"Well, I don't know if you remember but everyone had a virus, how do you say?"

"Tummy bug," said Kirsten.

"Oh I remember," Said Ray. "Believe me I definitely remember. I complained to Dillon about it and he told me to eat gravy granules. I didn't realise he was joking".

"Well, that was our first working day at the guesthouse dining room." Anna went on. "And our boss was an Israeli from outside the Kibbutz called Irit, we nicknamed her Irate."

"She's still there," remarked Kirsten.

"Yeah, well anyway after we had been there a week everyone was running to the toilet every five minutes and we turned up for work and Irit didn't arrive. Then at about ten o'clock she phoned up and said she wouldn't be in today because.." Her eyes flicked to Kirsten.

Kirsten put on Irit's booming robotic like voice. "Because I have the bad shit!"

Laughter echoed round the pool and Ray lit a smoke and tossed the pack back on the grass alongside his bleeper and wallet.

"Yep," said Ray as he stretched out his arms and rested his hands behind his head. "Everything we've learned back home to prepare us for life is useless to us here. Cars will bib you for no reason, people will shout at you for no reason. Everyone's asleep at two in the afternoon and awake at two in the morning and kids walk around with real guns."

********************

Ray was from Surrey in England and like Dillon and most of the others there he was in his early twenties. He'd finished studying biology in Swansea and wanted to have one big adventure before looking for a career. He'd been on the Kibbutz for three months which seemed to be the average time and had made his mind up to stay one more month and then tour either Egypt or Jordan before returning home.

They both had instantly clicked when Ray arrived although they were nothing alike. Dillon had been travelling for two years before arriving on the Kibbutz; he'd met Adi and had now been on the Kibbutz for another year. Dillon was street wise, tough and always had an opinion. Ray had assumed that they got on so well because both wanted to be a little bit more like the other.

Ray had changed in those three short months, getting scruffier on a daily rate and growing his curly blonde hair to his shoulders. The sun like everyone tanned him and luggage had toned up his six-foot frame to look nothing like the pasty swat that arrived a few months earlier.

********************

As lunchtime came closer the girls slipped back into their bikini tops and began to climb into skirts and T-shirts.

"Coming to lunch?" Kirsten asked.

Ray jumped up pulling on his sweat ridden T-shirt, his shorts were already dry.

The walk to the Kibbutz dining room was only five minutes but under the midday sun it seemed like a huge trek.

The girls had tried to walk barefooted but the path became so hot that Anna slipped on her sandals and Kirsten was trying to stay in the shadows or on the grass. They reached the dining room and relief swept over them as the buzz of air-conditioning and throng of people met them.

Seating was for about two hundred and the room had very much the same look as a school dining room.

People tended to sit in the same seats each day with the left-hand corner where the volunteers would be found. At the far right were the old folk who would come in earliest for food. The manual workers would sit more at the back and the younger would sit more at the front.

The windows were huge and as they were at the highest point of the Kibbutz here they could look out of any of them and see the mountains bearing down over them from the horizon. In the foreground was the beauty of the Kibbutz. The palm trees and gardens, flowering cacti and sprinklers everywhere whizzing round.

The food was nearer the entrance and usually served by Volunteers or Kibbutz women and tended to be the same thing for that particular day of the week. Today it was Israel's national Dish, Falafel and chicken wings from the birds slaughtered on the Kibbutz. (The breasts would be sold outside).

Mashed potato, peas, cauliflower and carrots were usually standard and different salads were on display. Olives and Avocado's, bread, Humus and sauces sat in an array of trays.

Most people could usually find something to sustain them but it was all very bland.

Birds were also common members of the dining room and it was usual to see them darting past your head or weaving between the tables. Once a table had been vacated they descended upon it like little vultures to clean up the mess. The cockroaches got what was left on the floor.

Another important decoration of Kibbutz tables was the carboinic. This was a metal bowl in the middle of the tables where unwanted food or cigarette packets were thrown. If ever there were a time when someone had forgotten to put a carboinic on the table the waste would still be thrown into the space where it should have been.

The noise at this time was incredible seeming to come in waves across the room. The Kibbutzniks were mainly in blue boiler suits and hats; the heat to them seemed easier to bear. Most had returned from jobs on the farmland or the industrial site.

The youngsters had created their own kind of fashion that no one had really seen before. Apart from the obvious differences in size and features they were carbon copies of each other. On their feet most of them wore clogs or were just bare footed. The girls wore baggy colourful shorts and the guys cut down jeans or combats. The T-shirts had the head hole widened with uneven jagged cuts so that not only did they allow the head to poke through but also half of the shoulder. The bra straps of the girls were then visible which was a very important part of the fashion.

Ray nodded to a few that he'd become friendly with but they were hard people to get to know. He guessed that they'd seen so many volunteers come and go that they didn't really see the point of friendships. Other people had different theories, mainly that Kibbutzniks (especially the old ones) saw the volunteers as very low members in the social scale and not worth getting to know, unless they were Jewish of course.

Ray moved his tray from pit stop to pit stop until it was full, then headed for the volunteer table.

About twelve were there. Pete and Josh from South Africa, Jean from France, two Americans, Septic and Lucy, Ryan from Australia, A German girl called Nicola, Vern from Holland, Stuart from Canada, Gwido from Argentina.

Dillon was there and as usual was arguing with Septic. Ray sat on the end of the table and was joined by Anna and Kirsten.

Septic turned to Ray. "Can you believe this asshole, he's trying to tell me the god damn British army knew about the attack on Pearl harbour but didn't warn us."

Dillon sniggered, but went on, "It's true, you have to understand what the British were going through at the time. We had already lost Singapore to the Japs, we were fighting for our lives over in Europe, you bastards were sitting on the fence," he flung each finger out as he listed. "We were fighting your war for you over in the Pacific and using up valuable troops that were needed in Europe. We'd cracked the Japanese codes, we knew they were coming but we didn't warn you coz we wanted to drag you in."

Septic lowered his voice in anger. "You ungrateful piece of.. We saved your asses man! You'd be speaking German if it wasn't for us." He turned to the German Nicola who rolled her eyes at him, "No offence Niki."

"Bullshit," retorted Dillon. "You took our help and we took yours," He managed to stifle a smirk. "You'd be speaking Japanese pal."

"So how come we took over then eh?" Septic went on raising his voice even louder when it was his turn. "When we joined in pal every campaign was led by the Americans, you just followed us about like puppy dogs. Why was this?"

"Because you had the money," said Nicola.

"Yeah, Blood money," Agreed Dillon. "I think we're still paying you back."

Septic's voice raised an octave higher. "What the fu..! You ungrateful piece of.." He flashed his eyes at Dillon's smile and carried on, determined to win this one. "You needed our guidance, unlike you we've never lost a war and.."

Nicola cut him off with, "How about Vietnam?"

"It was a tie!" Septic huffed.

"Hey what war did we lose?" Called Ray from the end of the table.

"The god damn war of independence, that's all," replied Septic.

"No No No!" Yelled Dillon waving his hands in front of Septic’s face, "You can't have that one, you were Americans after the war, you were British before and during it."

"What a load of crap." Septic craned his neck and looked for support from Lucy."Help me out here Juicy."

Lucy waved him away, keeping well out of it.

Septic's eyes rolled over the table and fixed on Gwido. "How bout you Gwido?"

Gwido held his hands in front of him as if to protect him self from a body blow. "Hey, I'm Argentinean man, don't drag me into this."

"Gwido! Tell him what you told me." Insisted Dillon.

"Oh, not again." Gwido muttered. He swept back his long black hair and put on his serious face. "We were talking about the Falklands war and I was telling Dillon that the Argentinean army was mainly made up of eighteen-year-old conscripts with world war two weapons and little food."

Dillon took over. "And I asked him why they thought they could get away with it and he said." He looked over at Gwido expectantly.

"And I said something like, we were positive that America was going to help us out."

"You see what I mean," Dillon sneered.

"Can't trust em," chirped Ray, immediately apologising to Lucy afterwards.

"Son of a.." Septic rose to leave, placing all of his used cups and dishes on his tray with a crash. "I've got to go,"

He nodded to Dillon, "This Aint over limey."

********************

Septic was from New York and was in much the same position as Dillon in that he too had a girlfriend of the Kibbutz. She was older and so out of the army and he was quite happy to stay in her apartment and work as little as possible.

He worked with the turkeys because as it was one of the most unpopular jobs on the Kibbutz it meant you could more or less do what you liked there.

Dillon had sussed Septic as soon as he arrived. He had calculated that Septic must be one hundred and sixty years old. He was only twenty-one in reality but according to him he'd been in the Gulf war, he was a Rock star, Judo expert, he'd done time for shooting someone and he had a five-year heroin addiction.

In the early days of knowing Septic the less gullible volunteers would have a laugh by giving him a subject and then wait for the bullshit.

He was tall; very thin with long grunge style brown hair. He was covered with black home made tattoo's and had a strange oriental looking face that was covered in freckles.

His Hebrew was excellent, better than Dillon’s, which meant he'd probably been dossing in Israel for years.

But for all his faults people couldn't help liking him, least of all Dillon who looked forward to their lunchtime chats.

********************

Shane was in the toilettes staring in the mirror before joining the others for lunch. He was the oldest of all the volunteers at the age of twenty-nine and was known mainly for his relentless womanising.

He was an English South African from Cape Town who had spent most of his life growing up in London until he moved to be with his mother to South Africa in his twenties. And it was there that Shane had decided that there wasn't any point in going to work. She was rich and some day it would all be his. At least, that was his story. So for the past eight years he travelled the world, occasionally stopping off to volunteer for a while until any pocket money came through. His mother wasn't ill or old, but he was willing to wait.

He made various facial expressions to himself in the mirror. Occasionally rubbing a soggy finger over an eyebrow or flicking the black spikes of his recently cut flat top.

Shane was usually drunk and his eyes were still red from the night before when he finally went to bed at four to get up for six to work in the kitchen.

He then looked at himself sideways and gave a tough looking expression mouthing the words, "Nah, I'm just here man, what's the problem, what's the problem man?"

He then threw a few mock punches towards the mirror, then quickly bolted upright as the door creaked open and an old man shuffled in. He turned and left nodding to the old man. "Shalom."

The old man nodded back. "Shalom."

Shane grabbed some chicken wings and piled twenty or so on his plate because it was the only thing he liked. He then filled a litre jug full of milk and mixed a little cocoa with it.

He took Septic’s place at the table and picked up a chicken wing with each hand. "Alright Dillon? Lucrative morning?"

"Nah, just a bit of beer money," Dillon replied eager not to let the other Vollies know what sort of money they were earning.

"Yeah yeah," said Shane with a mouth full of food.

"Where have you been?" Asked Lucy who also worked in the kitchen. "Magda's been searching for you".

"Getting my wages," Shane replied, "I've run out of vodka."

"You should learn to budget a bit better," Lucy remarked.

"Why thanks Luce," Shane replied sarcastically. "I must be miss-managing my forty five shekels a week." He paused while he added up. "That's about a Shekel and a bit an hour." He paused again. "What's that? About twenty pence an hour?"

"Look at it this way." Said Dillon blowing smoke in his face. "Smokes are only three shekels and vodka is four, what more do you want?" He then rose to leave. "Anyway I'm off, I'll see you all later."

"When are you helping me with my chat up lines?" Asked Shane.

"Oh for god's sake," moaned Lucy.

Dillon’s eye's flicked skywards. "Um, not sure, before the weekend though."

"Hey Dillon," called Ray. "When's she back then?"

"Friday," Dillon beamed.

The afternoons were long and lazy on the Kibbutz. It was a ghost town; everyone was either asleep or by the pool as the temperature soared even more. Just on his walk back to the apartment Dillon's face was getting redder by the second, and the dried sweat on his T-shirt was added to again after just a few paces. He smiled quietly to himself, "Friday."

David Durrant   synopsis   'WELCOME TO THE GREEN LINE'